


For the Long Haul

by shihadchick



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Canon Related, Established Relationship, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-12 09:18:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7929250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shihadchick/pseuds/shihadchick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So Brandon's first season with the Blue Jackets isn't starting out so great. Nick's not sure how to help, but he's going to see what he can do to distract him at least.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For the Long Haul

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my lovely betas the_eighth_sin and mistress_shiny. <3

It’s awkward the first time they see each other in October; it would be hard for it to be any other way. The Isles might have dropped the first two of their season too, but they’re coming in to Columbus on a three-game win streak, and the Jackets-

The Blue Jackets are 0 and 6.

Nick has never felt more unsure of himself with Brandon, not even when they were awkwardly dancing around each other, trying to subtly feel out if there was more underlying their friendship or not. If it had been anyone other than him involved, Nick can allow it would probably have been pretty funny to watch them trying to hint that a pass would be welcomed without actually coming right out and saying that, just in case it would be too far. Nick’s heard enough ‘no homo’ jokes in locker rooms to last a lifetime, thanks. Not that he’d ever thought Brandon would do that. But it was a relief to find out for certain that he wasn’t reading too much into anything, that Brandon was just as interested as he was.

In some ways, the trade had been almost a relief, giving them enough space that they didn’t have to worry about making anything difficult with the team. Not getting to see each other very often sucked, sure, but smart phones and the internet made up for a hell of a lot. He had been almost looking forward to having Brandon in the same division now; if nothing else it was going to make it a lot easier to see each other.

Turns out that one cuts both ways.

He’s been talking to Brandon through the preseason—through the whole puck to the mouth debacle, although that had involved a lot more texting, for obvious reasons—and through the beginning of the regular season, but their calls have been getting shorter and shorter. And repetitive; they keep ending with Brandon looking tense and miserable and Nick running out of ways to reassure him that eventually some of the bounces will start going his way again.

Nick’s time and attention are mostly taken up with his own team, of course; they have to be, that’s what he’s been working for all his life, that’s why they signed him to this contract. The playoffs could have gone better, but they'll get another crack at it this year, with most of the same guys back, and a lot more experience under their belts this time. So in theory Nick feels pretty good about life in blue and orange. Barclays is an adjustment, but it’s less of one for him after just a year of heading out to Nassau than it is for most of his teammates. Taking the train is something a little different, but it’s neat to see the fans who do spot them, and it’s a good chance to catch up with the guys he’s gotten closer to in the mornings, before they have to knuckle down to work.

But he has to admit, standing in the lobby of the hotel the team stay at in Columbus on the Monday night before their game… he’s nervous. It’s not that he doesn’t want to see Brandon, or his new house—fuck, he has a house, another thing in the long list of what’s changed for them over the last year or so—but he’s not sure what to say to him. It’s not like he could say he hopes either of their teams can break their streaks tomorrow. Even if he did, Brandon wouldn’t believe him. But he’d do anything short of that to take the tightness out of Brandon’s expression, reassure him that things will get better.

The Uber he calls to get a ride to Brandon’s turns up exactly on time, which means he doesn’t even have the slightest excuse possible to drag his heels.

Brandon lets him in without saying much of anything, and Nick drops his coat over the arm of the couch and follows Brandon into the kitchen. It’s where they wind up when they need to talk, it seems like, and Nick can’t help but feel his stomach hollow out at that thought. Not that he doesn’t want to talk to Brandon; he pretty much always wants to talk to Brandon. But if there’s something they need to talk about, odds are it’s not going to be great, right now.

“Hi,” Nick says cautiously, and sits down at the kitchen table.

It’s a pale wooden oval, a near twin of the one that had been in Brandon’s furnished apartment back in Chicago. He’s not sure if that’s a coincidence or if Brandon was just so used to it he’d gone for something similar.

This kitchen is a lot bigger, though. There’s six chairs pushed in neatly around the table, and plenty of space between it and the cabinets, unlike Brandon’s old apartment, where there’d been five chairs to start with and only four by the time he moved out. That had mostly worked out okay, since you couldn’t get one of the cabinets open there without moving a chair first, so it was almost for the best—or so Brandon had said, ruefully, picking himself and Nick out of the wreckage and rubbing at what would turn out to be a fairly spectacular bruise on his ass—that they managed to break one.

Realistically Nick should have known that nothing that spindly would actually take the weight of two well-built adults; those chairs had creaked sometimes with even someone who was Shawzy’s size in them, but he still hadn’t managed to stop and engage his brain before responding to Brandon’s half-desperate “Come _here_ ,” a touch too literally.

This time, Brandon sits beside him, their shoulders brushing, and he hooks his ankle around Nick’s, resting both their feet against the leg of the chair. It’s almost nice, although it would be better if Nick had remembered to kick his shoes off when he’d come in. Brandon’s foot is still warm through the side of his pants, the thin wool of his sock.

Nick opens his mouth to ask Brandon how he is, but it’s a stupid question, and he knows that before he can even get the words out. Brandon’s shoulders are tight and he looks _tired_ more than anything, more than Nick’s ever seen him be outside the playoffs. They’re hardly two weeks into the season; Nick left him in Pittsburgh barely a month ago, healthy and excited to start with his new team, quietly confident and resolved. The trade had shocked them both, but Brandon had said all the right things to start, and—if Nick is any judge, which he rather thinks he is in this instance—talked himself into accepting them as fact fast, too. But this is nothing he’s ever had to cope with before; the Hawks have come out of the gate strongly every year since Nick and Brandon both donned that jersey.

Not that it’s productive at all to dwell on that, he thinks, and instead reaches out, curls his palm over Brandon’s wrist, just resting his fingers lightly over his pulse. That’s steady as ever, and Nick lets himself relax again, wills Brandon to do the same.

They sit quietly like that for a long moment, and Brandon does look better by the time Nick lets go of him, leaving his hand on the table beside Brandon’s.

“Hey,” Brandon says, voice low and soft as ever; he never sounds quite right over Skype or the phone and Nick misses it.

“Good to see you,” Nick says in reply.

That’s perfectly honest, and doesn’t give Brandon any extra pressure either.

“Sorry I’m not a lot of fun lately,” Brandon says, and Nick lets himself reach over and interlace his fingers with Brandon’s.

“If all I wanted was fun—” Nick starts to say, and Brandon laughs—short and with a touch more bitterness than Nick’s used to hearing from him—but finishes the sentence for him anyway, “—you’d be with Shawzy?”

“Oh god no,” Nick says, after a half-second’s horrified imagining. He loves Andy, but. Not like that. “But also, yeah, exactly that.”

When Nick signed on for the longhaul—with Brandon, informally, and with the Islanders, involving quite a lot more paperwork—he’d known in both cases there were going to be times where things just sucked. He’s willing to work through that, though; wants to put in the effort to make it work. And all he can do for Brandon right now is be a support, or a distraction, or ideally both.

If Nick was better at this kind of thing, he would have a joke lined up now, though; something about how by this point the Blue Jackets have to be due some kind of phenomenal puck luck to make this up, but he doesn’t quite have the words for that. And besides, while neither he nor Brandon are particularly superstitious, it also seems like the sort of thing where he doesn’t quite want to tempt fate, either.

“Okay, fair,” Brandon sighs, giving him the point. The line of stress between his eyes isn’t quite so distinct now, at least.

“Do you want to get dinner somewhere?” Nick asks, trailing off invitingly.

Brandon’s place is pretty close to the rink; pretty close to the visiting team’s hotel, and they’ve both spent a fair amount of time in the city over the years, back when the Jackets were still a divisional rival in the west. Mostly what that means is they’ve been to some of the restaurants in the arena district, some of the clubs a little further afield, packed with students and loud and dark.

Loud and dark might do both of them some good right now, but neither of them is going to go for that the night before a game. A quiet drink, sure, but anything more than that seems like asking for trouble and neither of them are wired that way. Nick’s feeling a definite urge to shake off some of that whole nerdy-good-kid vibe, though.

“When do you have to be back at the hotel?” Brandon asks, rather than answering him.

Nick tips his sleeve back, checks his watch—the new one he’d bought in the off-season, feels the same little spark of pleasure and satisfaction as he glances at it that he’d had picking it out in the first place—and says, “About three hours? The usual.”

Brandon’s foot presses more insistently against Nick’s calf and it’s exactly as effective a distraction as Brandon must have been expecting it to be, because Nick’s lost interest in food pretty much instantly.

“We can order in,” Brandon says, definitely.

“Sure,” Nick says, not bothering to push that. Brandon will have to know who delivers by now, even if he was on a restricted diet for a week or so around the dental work. Nick’s not fussy, and if it comes to it, Brandon can order for him just fine. He’d rather get something else clear first. “What else do you want?”

“Leds,” Brandon complains, with just a hint of whine, and he reaches over this time, wraps his hand around Nick’s forearm, squeezes meaningfully.

“I think we skipped the part where we could just go straight to bed,” Nick says, knowing he’s being kind of a jerk. It seems like Brandon might need that.

Brandon looks taken aback, and then kind of pissed for a moment, which is almost an improvement. He hadn’t looked like he was giving up, but feeling more than a little sorry for himself… maybe.

“I actually—I don’t want to talk about it,” he says after a moment, but his fingers aren’t digging into Nick’s arm nearly as tightly as they had been for that first moment. “It sucks, like. This fucking _sucks_ , and I just want to think about something else for five minutes, okay?”

Nick feels his chest constrict at that, as if he can’t contain the feeling that spreads through him. He can’t always do anything and sometimes he shouldn’t, but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel bad, seeing Brandon stuck like this.

“Okay, you're—Yeah. We can do that,” Nick says.

When he puts it that way, that’s a fair ask. And it’s something Nick can give him.

Brandon pushes his chair back, moving away from the table, and from Nick. He stands up and then seems to catch himself.

“Sorry, I should have—did you want anything? A drink, or…?” he trails off as Nick pushes his own chair back from the table and steps around the corner, coming closer.

Brandon looks like he’s torn between throwing himself at Nick or playing it slightly cooler; Nick solves the dilemma for him by leaning in and wrapping his arms around him, burying his face in the side of Brandon’s neck. He can feel Brandon take a deep breath in—a little shaky, but he steadies fast—and then Brandon’s arms are tight around him, too, his hands warm on Nick’s back.

They should have done this when Nick had got there. He’d wanted to, and Brandon probably had too, whether he’d admit it or not. Something about being in the middle of the kitchen tiles as they hold each other feels more desperate than hugging in the front hall would have, Nick thinks, but he hasn’t let go of Brandon yet, and Brandon’s still clutching him just as tight, hands bunched up in the back of Nick’s shirt.

“I really fucking missed you,” Nick says, can’t hold the words back.

“Yeah,” Brandon says, and then he leans back—just a little, enough to see Nick properly—and their eyes meet.

Brandon’s got faint lines of tension around his eyes, looks a little bruised, although Nick can’t tell if that’s the left over from the dental work or games since or just stress and lack of sleep. They’ve both had two straight days off for the first time in a while, but Nick wouldn’t guess it to look at Brandon. Inevitably, his gaze drops from Brandon’s eyes—bluer than usual, picking up some of the color of the navy long-sleeved shirt he’s wearing—to his mouth, and Brandon swallows, licks his lips.

They should’ve done this already, too, Nick thinks, but better late than never, and Brandon surges forward to meet him when he leans in to kiss him.

Nick knows it’s only been a couple of weeks since he touched Brandon last, if that. It’s not been nearly as long as it feels then and there, but there’s a rising desperation in the way that Brandon is kissing him back that feels like it’s going to knock his feet out from under him, dragging him down.

Brandon’s still holding him tight, like he’s worried Nick’s going anywhere other than where Brandon wants him to be. Nick would tie himself in knots for Brandon if he asked, and sometimes it feels like he is, maintaining this relationship across the distance, with the pressure they’re both feeling. But most of the time Brandon won’t ask, will only give away tiny hints like this, the unspoken need and desperation that fuels him slipping out of his control for once. Nick doesn’t think this is the time to try and talk about anything serious, not really. Not with a game tomorrow, one that the Jackets have to consider ‘must win’. And maybe Nick’s selfish, but he doesn’t want to deal with that or with anything difficult, he just wants to get some time with Brandon, maybe get laid. At the very least, kiss him enough that it doesn’t feel like he’s starving for it in between now and the next time they’ll get to see each other, weeks and weeks away.

And maybe Nick’s fooling himself, too, because there’s no maybe about it.

Brandon gets a hand under his shirt, slides it up his back to spread his palm out over the plane of Nick’s shoulder blade, his skin warm and surprisingly soft. Brandon’s good at remembering to moisturize, doesn’t have the tiny cracks and dry patches that Nick gets whenever he skimps on doing anything to keep his own skin in good condition. Brandon shifts his weight, and Nick holds his breath waiting to see what he’s going to do. He’s not disappointed as Brandon takes a half step forward, pushes his foot between Nick’s, his knee between Nick’s thighs, bringing their bodies closer and giving Nick some pressure exactly where he most wants it.

Nick was definitely lying to himself.

He really, really fucking wants to get laid.

Brandon pulls back for a moment, waits until Nick’s eyes focus on him, steady and concentrated.

“Were you serious about not wanting to…?” he asks delicately.

“I thought maybe we shouldn’t,” Nick says. “But. I’m an idiot, I fucking want to, Brandon. It’s—fuck, it’s you, of course I want to. C’mon, show me your new bedroom, huh?”

“Thank god,” Brandon says, more emphatically than Nick’s quite expecting.

He’s not sure why that surprises him; it’s not like Brandon’s got laid any more recently than Nick has. Or at least, not so far as he knows. Not that he’d be expecting Brandon to cheat on him or anything like that, and if nothing else, it’s not like Nick could work out when he’d even have time. Nick worries about getting enough time for the relationship he’s in, he can’t imagine trying to juggle anyone else’s schedule as well.

But worrying about any of that now is just wasting what little time they do have together, and Nick’s well and truly done with that. Instead, he lets his voice dip lower, enjoys the way Brandon sways into him automatically, almost unconsciously responsive, and raises an eyebrow as he asks, “Want me to take your mind off it all, huh?”

Brandon bites his lip, and Nick reaches out, presses their lips together again in a bruising kiss, drags his teeth over Brandon’s lower lip until Brandon makes a frustrated noise and pulls back, blinking fast.

“Come on,” Brandon says, breathless. “You said you wanted to see my bedroom, let’s go.”

He’s just as bad at following instructions as Nick is, though, because instead of pulling away further Brandon deliberately leans in again, hips shifting, ever so slowly rubbing off against Nick’s thigh.

That’s hot, and it’ll get even hotter if Nick can get his act together enough to get them both naked already, not that the teasing isn’t nice in its own way.

“Okay,” Nick says. “Okay, okay, let’s do this.”

“About time,” Brandon says, but he leads Nick down the hall and into his bedroom without delaying any further, without any other quick words or lingering touches, nothing to make them wait and wait and wait some more.

Instead, he stops by his bed—the same one he’d had in Chicago, Nick’s pretty sure, and he’s glad of that one point of familiarity, at least—and starts to undress, making quick work of his shirt and pants.

Nick watches for a moment before belatedly realizing that means him, too, and he strips out of his clothes in record time, leaving his pants and shirt in a heap on the floor. Normally he’d stop and pick them up, make some effort at looking like nothing has happened later, but he’ll be leaving here and going back to his own hotel room, doesn’t have to share with anyone any more. It’s not like he’s going to be seeing nosey teammates or friends who’d notice if he looks a little the worse for wear.

As Brandon reaches out to grab Nick’s wrist and tug him forward until they’re both scrambling to get onto the bed, Nick thinks briefly that he’d like to take something back from this, whether it’s just a creased shirt or a couple of nice bruises. Brandon likes to mark him up sometimes, and Nick likes wearing his marks, likes having something from Brandon with him so he can lean into a bruise or run his fingertips across sensitive skin and feel the ghost of Brandon’s hands and mouth on him again hours and days later.

He’s not going to do it unless Nick asks, though, and even now sometimes Nick finds it hard to ask. He has to work his way up to it, and he’s not sure if they’re going to have time to get there. Nick doesn’t need it, it’s not like he’s _depending_ on that, but… it would be nice.

That’s not at the forefront of his mind then, though; Nick’s mostly engaged in trying to touch as much of Brandon as he possibly can. He rolls them over so Brandon’s underneath him, his weight spread evenly over Brandon, enjoying the friction that comes from shifting and settling, the imperfect match of curve and angle.

“Hi,” Nick says, holding himself up on his elbows so he can look at Brandon, getting a good view of the way Brandon licks his lips, and the way his eyes darken, the pupils huge, ringed in gray-blue, eager and wanting. “I missed you,” Nick repeats, and instead of waiting for any kind of response, he leans in and presses his mouth to Brandon’s again.

Brandon kisses him back hotly, desperate, the edges of his teeth grazing at Nick’s lips, his tongue more forceful than usual. Nick swallows a moan and sinks into it, eyes closing, only bothering to make sure he’s lined up enough not to mash his nose into Brandon’s or anything else similarly embarrassing.

They stay like that for a while, hardly moving, breathing too fast, just kissing and kissing. Nick startles at the touch of Brandon’s hand, curled around the nape of his neck; he’d lost track for a minute there, and hadn’t expected it. Brandon smiles against his mouth and twists his fingers into the hair at the back of Nick’s head, pulling a little as he does, and Nick leans into it, lets the pinpricks of sensation—it really isn’t even close to being _pain_ —roll through him, shivering as Brandon tugs again, directing him.

He lets his head draw back, pulling away from Brandon’s mouth, in case that’s what he wants, but it doesn’t seem to be, because Brandon’s grip slackens, and next thing Nick knows he’s pushing rather than pulling. Nick doesn’t need to ask questions to read that cue; he wriggles just enough to find his balance and then ducks his chin, mouthing along Brandon’s jaw and then down the column of his throat.

Brandon makes some satisfied noises at that, and when Nick opens his eyes he can see the way Brandon’s skin has gone pink, the faint flush of arousal blending with the irritation from Nick’s beard rasping over soft skin. He leans in and rubs his cheek more deliberately against the skin under Brandon’s chin, and this time the noise Brandon makes is much louder, and deeply gratifying.

Nick grins helplessly and brushes his lips over the the side of Brandon’s neck, where he can feel his pulse beating steady and strong, fancies he can feel the uptick in his heart rate as Nick runs his hand down his side, anchoring his thumb at Brandon’s hip.

Brandon squirms under him again, more pointedly this time, a reminder that this is all very well and good—really fucking good—but he's clearly ready for more.

“Something you want?” Nick asks, teasing, and as he sits up enough to actually see Brandon properly he makes sure to add enough of a slow dirty grind into his movements that Brandon sucks in a breath involuntarily, jerks up enough that his dick rubs along the crease of Nick’s thigh, hot and wet.

Nick’s too impatient himself to tease for any longer than that, and he gets a hand between them, curls it familiarly around Brandon’s dick. Brandon sighs and goes almost boneless, head falling back, panting with his mouth open. Nick can feel the slow drip of precome against his palm, reaches under the pillow by Brandon’s head with his other hand, in perfect expectation of finding lube there, and Brandon doesn’t let him down. His fingers close around a plastic bottle easily, and it’s the work of a moment to retrieve it, slick his hand up and get it back onto Brandon’s dick for a smooth, slow stroke.

Brandon arches up in his touch, lets his eyes close, his expression smoothing out. Nick shifts around some more so he can see him better, settling his weight back onto his heels as he sits up enough that he can flick his gaze between watching Brandon’s face and his own hand. Brandon’s as responsive as ever, making enough noise that Nick is very sure he’s enjoying himself, and he can’t seem to hold still under Nick, even when Nick slows his hand down to a glacial pace and tells him to wait, just wait.

It’s teasing himself as much as it is teasing Brandon, but it’s working for Nick. It’s _really_ working for Nick. He wants to get a hand on his own dick, or maybe stretch out flat again, rub off on Brandon. It’s tempting, but not quite tempting enough to get him to change anything that he’s doing, not when Brandon’s moaning nonstop, shifting impatiently.

“You like this?” Nick asks, because he’s never been able to resist pushing, loves the way that Brandon comes undone.

It’s not like Brandon’s particularly shy most of the time, and he’s never been that way with Nick, but trying to get him to talk when he’s this worked up and desperate has its own rewards. Brandon’s pink in the face, sweating, squirming under Nick, and he licks his lips quickly and swallows hard when Nick pauses expectantly, perfectly willing to threaten to stop altogether until Brandon puts the words together to reply.

“Leds,” he complains, and Nick gives him half a stroke, drags his thumb partway up his dick. “You’re such a—” Brandon goes on, and then trails off sheepishly, and Nick can finish that sentence, sure, and he can understand why Brandon’s maybe finding it a little awkward to call him a dick when he’s got his fingers wrapped around Brandon’s.

That is a few more words, though, so Nick gets his hand moving again, fingertips trailing over the sensitive skin of the head, too lightly to do more than tease.

“Come on,” Brandon pants, “Fuck, please, Leds, I want it, jerk me off, finger me, something, fuck. Come _on_.”

“I guess I can do that,” Nick says, as if it’s not anything he didn’t already want to do, wasn’t already entirely on board for any time Brandon’s in the mood.

Nick likes touching Brandon, likes the way he reacts, the way he curses and whimpers, the noises he makes when Nick pushes slowly inside him, with his fingers or his dick or a toy. Loves the way Brandon sounds just as fucked out and desperate and pleased when it’s Nick getting fucked, Nick riding him or wrapping his legs around his waist, Nick with his feet flat on the mattress and his knees bowed out, making room for Brandon to slide inside him. Nick loves the way they seem to find something new every time they do this, even if it should maybe have started feeling familiar and easy and rote. Somehow, the more familiar he gets with Brandon and his body and what he’s like in bed, the more he craves it, the more he wants to just keep doing this again and again, as much as they can.

It’s not like they really get a whole lot of opportunities, and Nick’s acutely aware of time passing, of the fact that eventually he’s going to have to get a cab or a ride back to his hotel room, but right then he can let himself narrow his world down to just this moment, to the man he’s in bed with, to tightening his grip once again and jerking Brandon off fast and tight and perfect.

Brandon’s mumbling “fuck, fuck,” over and over again as Nick keeps his hand moving, his eyes wide, breath coming fast.

“God, you feel good,” Nick says, and he still can’t take his eyes off him, taking in Brandon’s expression, lips parted and wet, scanning down to where his dick is flushed a deep pink, even darker in contrast to Nick’s hand wrapped around him. “Missed this so much, Saader.”

“Yeah,” Brandon pants, “I was kinda getting that impression.”

“You wanted to hear me say it, though,” Nick says, and Brandon gives him a look like Nick’s just fumbled a shot on an empty net from three feet.

“Duh,” Brandon says, and then, “oh, _fuck_ ,” when Nick gets abruptly impatient with teasing both of them like that and shifts faster than he thinks Brandon was expecting him to, wriggling down the bed until he’s eye-level with Brandon’s dick, breathing hotly onto his bare skin.

“You wanna come like this?” he asks, and he doesn’t wait for Brandon to answer before tilting his wrist to give himself a better angle, getting his mouth on Brandon’s dick like he’s been wanting to for days, sucking on the head, lips sliding down to meet his fingers.

“It’s not gonna take long,” Brandon says, tightly, like he’s biting the words out around a mouthful, like they’ve been coaxed out of him, working their way past clenched teeth.

Nick looks up along the length of his body to watch Brandon’s reaction, and he’s not exaggerating at all, he looks like he’s right on the edge already. His jaw’s set, fine tremors in his hands where he’s clutching at the sheets so he doesn’t grab at Nick’s head, and he’s breathing fast through his nose, hips jerking up in tiny increments at each successive swipe of Nick’s tongue, every movement of his hand.

Nick’s sucked Brandon’s dick enough to know what he likes, what works for him, and he puts that knowledge to good use, keeping it fast and tight and wet. He works the length of Brandon’s dick, teases his thumbnail over the sensitive skin behind his balls, plays with them some as well, until Brandon’s cursing again, four letter words trailing off into inarticulate moaning.

Brandon did ask him to finger him, even though Nick suspects that might’ve been just one in a line of suggestions where Brandon would actually take anything, any one of them that might actually give him a chance of getting off soon. But he likes the way Brandon feels around his fingers anyway, so when he pulls up and off his dick long enough to get Brandon’s attention it’s only to drag one wet finger down the crease of his thigh, working back suggestively towards his ass.

“You still want that?” Nick checks, and he sounds rough already, like he’s been sucking Brandon off for hours and not just minutes. He knows his own face is red, that sweat is beading at his temples and around his ears.

Brandon doesn’t seem to mind, or he’s into it, something like that, because he manages a “Mnnghh,” at first, and when Nick raises an eyebrow, waiting for something a little more specific, Brandon manages to pull himself together enough to say, “Yes, fuck, come on, Nick.”

Nick’s not entirely sure when Brandon shifted, but he’s got his legs wrapped around Nick’s shoulders and his heel pressing emphatically into Nick’s lower back, nudging him to keep going, don’t stop.

Nick’s two fingers deep in Brandon seconds later, because the other thing about how often they’ve done this, how long they’ve been _doing_ this is he knows what Brandon likes, and he knows how he likes it. And Brandon likes fingers, likes being stretched out, doesn’t always want to get fucked with anything more than that, necessarily, but the way he falls apart on Nick’s hands is always so fucking good for Nick, too.

Nick watches his fingers disappear into Brandon’s body for a few moments more, reaches out blindly for the lube after a moment and slicks his hand up some more. He adds a third finger then, more for the way Brandon arches up under him and groans, full-throated and deep and needy. Nick’s pretty sure he’s going to have a bruise somewhere on his back from the way Brandon kicked out reflexively at that, too, and that’s hot in its own way. Nick likes going home with Brandon’s marks on him whether they were intended or not. It’s not like he wouldn’t be feeling this and thinking about it later without them, but the evidence makes it easier. Makes it better. Nick’s going to stretch out in a hotel bed tonight on clean white sheets, perfectly proper and entirely alone, and when he rolls over he’ll feel the phantom imprint of Brandon’s heel in his shoulder, will remember that no matter what happens in the season or off the ice, this is what they’re both coming back to when it really matters.

The fact it’s incredibly fucking hot as well helps, of course.

Brandon’s squirming has gotten more pronounced by then, and Nick can feel him tensing around his fingers, muscles going tight all over his body.

“I, fuck, Leds, I’m gonna,” Brandon manages to say, not that Nick was missing the non-verbal clues, but the confirmation is nice; the way Brandon sounds fucking wrecked is even better.

“Hey, hey,” Nick says, quietly, soothing, and he rubs his free hand over the long muscles of Brandon’s thigh, but doesn’t stop his other hand moving at all, winding Brandon up at the same time. “You should come for me, I wanna see, c’mon.”

He doesn’t think Brandon was asking for permission, not exactly—if they’re doing that then they’re generally very clear about that from the outset, and Nick hadn’t told Brandon to wait, hadn’t asked for anything other than the chance to touch him—but it satisfies something deep and just a little dark inside Nick that Brandon still waited for him to say something.

Nick ducks his chin again, gets his mouth back on Brandon’s dick, lipping gently over the curve of the head, sucking as gently as he can. That’s apparently the final straw, the last impetus Brandon needed because he makes a desperate sound and then his dick is jerking in Nick’s mouth, coming in thick pulses over his tongue, against the roof of his mouth. Nick swallows most of it but doesn’t sweat that; it’s not like anyone’s going to be checking up on them, and he kind of likes getting messy like this. He rolls off Brandon—who’s sprawled limply on the sheets, panting like a runaway freight train—and swallows a few more times, reaches out for a corner of the sheet to wipe his face, scrubbing it over his teeth as well. The taste seems to cling sometimes and it's not like he’s getting near his toothbrush any time soon.

Brandon makes a face at him but doesn’t actually complain out loud; Nick’s apparently broken him of that habit, or maybe Brandon just planned ahead since he knew Nick was coming over, and Nick being there was about as good a guarantee that they were going to be having sex as anything. If Nick knows Brandon, he’s probably scheduled changing his sheets for later that night, or maybe first thing tomorrow before morning skate. Nick thinks for a second about Brandon curling up to sleep in sheets that smell like both of them, like sex and sweat, and it hooks into something deep in his chest, satisfying and almost vicious. Yeah, he likes that idea.

It’s not like he’d stopped being turned on at any point in the last few minutes, not like being distracted by working Brandon over let him entirely forget how bad he wanted to get off himself, but it had been one hell of a distraction. Now that he’s looked after Brandon his own arousal is becoming a more urgent affair, Nick has to admit, and he presses his palm over the head of his dick, not even stroking, just heat and pressure, something to take the edge off. It feels good even with that much, and he hums thoughtfully, wipes his hand off on the sheets by his hip and then curls his own fingers around his dick, thumb and forefinger circling tight and tugging up.

Brandon makes a protesting noise, and Nick turns his head; he’d landed a little further down the mattress than Brandon had been lying, which means his head is about level with Brandon’s chest. Nipple height, he thinks to himself, and has to stifle a snort.

“That’s really hot,” Brandon says, croaky, but he’s apparently regaining the ability to form sentences which is good both because Nick likes listening to Brandon talk, and because it ups the chances that Brandon’ll get it together enough soon to do things other than talk to him, too.

“I aim to please,” Nick says, his voice breathless and choppy even in his own ears, and he has to swallow hard, trying to get enough moisture back in his mouth to speak.

“You want a hand?” Brandon offers, and he rolls onto his side, looking speculatively down Nick’s body, reaching out to drag his fingernails lightly over Nick’s stomach, following the dark trail of hair down as it thickens. Nick catches himself holding his breath by the time Brandon’s fingers are pushing through the coarse hair around his dick, darting over in teasing little feints towards where his hand hasn’t stopped moving on his dick.

“Fuck, always,” Nick says, and Brandon seems to get that Nick doesn’t have a whole lot left; not patience or stamina, because Brandon just wraps his palm around his dick, displacing his own hand, and starts to stroke him, steady and confident and slick.

Nick didn’t notice him digging around to find the lube—admittedly, Nick was pretty fucking distracted—but he clearly has, because Brandon’s hand is slippery just the way Nick likes it, wet and a little sloppy, jacking him hard and tight.

“Hey, remind me, was this stuff flavored?” Brandon asks, and Nick blinks, eyes opening—when had he closed them?—in confusion.

“Say what?” Nick says, trying not to come all over Brandon. He’s been waiting, sure, but that doesn’t mean he wants to last a whole two minutes like he’s still a teenager or anything. It’ll be better if he can draw it out some more, anyhow.

Brandon gives him a patient look and lifts his hand off—unfair, Nick thinks—to illustrate. “You bought it, remember? The label came off when we were in the shower that time."

Nick does remember that pretty vividly. They'd had a very good time in the shower, right up until the hot water ran out on them.

"Did you get flavored lube, or is this the same stuff as always?”

Nick tries to remember what the bottle had even looked like when he'd been in the CVS in Minneapolis, slouching in a hat and jacket, hoping that no one was going to pick that moment to recognize him and ask for an autograph. He'd kind of looked at what there was on the shelf, but he’s not all that fussy, he’d just thought “sounds slippery” and “none of that warming shit” and tossed it into the basket with everything else. He hadn't really noticed that it'd wound up with Brandon's stuff instead of his, but they hadn't exactly packed up after spending the weekend at the lake with a whole lot of time or care.

“Same as last time,” he says after another moment, pretty certain that he’s right.

“Cool,” Brandon says, and he takes his hand off Nick’s dick for a moment—Nick stifles a protest—and licks the side of his hand to check, brows drawn together thoughtfully. “Yeah, okay,” he says, and then he gets his hand back on Nick—thank fuck for that—and starts wriggling down the bed.

“You have a bad experience or something?” Nick asks, mostly joking but a little curious all the same.

“Fake raspberry,” Brandon says, making a face that really does substitute for a thousand words. “It was pretty bad.”

“Well,” Nick says, “I think I can safely promise I’ll never do that to you.”

“Gee, thanks,” Brandon says, and then adds, “so, you want me to blow you now, or what?”

“Oh god, yes,” Nick says promptly.

He reaches back to grab a pillow from the head of the bed, lifts up enough so he can stuff it behind his neck, giving himself a better angle. The way Brandon’s mouth and hands feel on him is amazing, sure, but he likes to watch, too.

Brandon goes right down, showing off, and Nick bites back a moan. He remembers right after that that they’re at Brandon’s house, they’re not in a hotel room where who knows who could hear them. He can actually make noise, and so when Brandon slides his lips down Nick’s shaft again Nick lets himself groan out loud, hisses “Fuck, Brandon, fuck.”

“Can’t believe you held out this long,” Brandon mutters into the side of his thigh after he pulls off for a moment, his voice low, breath warm against Nick’s leg. He’s got one hand braced just above Nick’s knee, too, pushing his leg up, his thighs further apart, making enough space for himself between Nick’s legs.

“Probably not gonna last much longer,” Nick warns him, because he’s been waiting and he likes drawing it out, but he’s got his limits.

Brandon makes a noncommittal noise and just goes back to working Nick over, keeping his mouth soft and wet. Nick takes a shaky breath in and gets his hands into Brandon’s hair, smoothing it back, not letting himself pull the way he kind of wants to.

As the sensation builds, Nick bites his lip and has to fight to keep his eyes open. He hadn’t been exaggerating, he really was that close, could feel the orgasm just out of reach, teetering closer with every swipe of Brandon’s tongue over the sensitive head of his dick, with every brush of Brandon’s hands over the inside of his thigh and the way he slides his fingertips over Nick’s balls. Brandon’s never been shy about touching Nick anywhere; they’d graduated from significant looks to full-on anything-goes sex in about a month flat, and Nick doesn’t think there’s anywhere on his body that Brandon hasn’t touched at some time or another. Brandon replaces his mouth with his hand again, and Nick opens his mouth to complain, but that dissolves into a breathy moan as Brandon carefully mouths over his balls instead, his lips soft and wet against the delicate skin.

That is, it turns out, all Nick needs to completely lose control. He jerks reflexively under Brandon’s touch, manages to take a breath fast enough to say, “Brandon, fuck, I’m gonna, I’m close,” and the next words would absolutely have been “don’t stop”, but Brandon doesn’t stop, and Nick’s mind whites out for a hot second as his back arches and he comes hard, dick jerking in Brandon’s careful grip, streaking come over his groin and thigh. And over the side of Brandon’s face, because he hadn’t moved at all, just closed his eyes and let Nick come on him.

It’s hot enough in its own right that Nick has to suck in a shaky breath and say, “Fuck,” again, sincerely heartfelt, before reaching imploringly down to Brandon.

Brandon buys the clue and crawls up Nick’s body, lays carefully on top of him, doing his best to arrange them both so that Nick can finish coming down and shaking more than he’d maybe like to admit, without anyone kneeing anyone else somewhere sensitive. Nick doesn’t mind being teased a little, likes pushing it, but the idea of anyone—even Brandon, looking ridiculously hot with Nick’s come on his face, fucking hell—touching him then, well. That feels like it would be too much, even by Nick’s standards.

“Say something if you want me to move,” Brandon murmurs, a few minutes later. He has his head resting on Nick’s shoulder, and his breath is warm where it tickles at Nick’s throat as he exhales, and despite the fact that Brandon isn’t exactly a lightweight by anyone’s standards, Nick’s actually pretty comfortable.

“I’m good,” Nick replies, keeping his own voice low. It’s not like there’s anyone else around to hear them now any more than there had been when they were having sex, but something about this moment after seems to call for a lower volume, more muted talk. Nick just doesn’t want to mess with the atmosphere; he’s happy and comfortable and feeling good.

“Cool,” Brandon says, and he shifts his weight a little, just enough that he can reach up and press his lips to Nick’s jaw, a soft open-mouthed kiss that isn’t going to turn into anything more, doesn’t have to.

“Mmm,” Nick says appreciatively, and he lifts one hand to run his fingers through Brandon’s hair, rubbing at his scalp the way Nick knows he likes. It feels like more effort than it really is; Nick’s arms are heavy like he’s just done a full weights circuit, trembly with muscle fatigue, even if it’s from tension and the after-effects of coming that hard and not anything else. It’s nice to trace the curve of Brandon’s skull though, cupping his hand around the back of his head. Nick likes having Brandon this close, and the closer they drift to curfew—Nick doesn’t know exactly what time it is now, and he’s in no hurry to find out since he’s pretty sure he isn’t going to like the answer to that question—the more reluctant he is to pull away. Who knows how long it’ll be until the next time they have this? Nick’s not letting go until he absolutely has to.

Or, okay, until one of them has to pee.

But one of those things, definitely.

Nick keeps his hand moving, slow and steady, and Brandon’s eyes droop closed. Now that he’s not focused on Nick, not intent on getting him off or on finding his own release Nick can see more signs of stress in his expression again, see how he looks more tired than Nick’s seen him in a while. That makes Nick frown, automatically gentling his hand as well. He sweeps his thumb over Brandon’s cheek and the side of his lips, cleaning his face off, and wipes his hand off on the sheet. Brandon sighs a little and turns his face into Nick’s touch, going limp, clearly worn out. Nick’s happy to have helped with the good parts of that at least, although it’s killing him to think of getting up and leaving him like this.

It’s not like he could stay over however bad he wants to, and he knows it, just has to give himself enough of a pep talk that he doesn’t resent that fact more than a little. They’re both playing hockey professionally, and Nick's always known nothing about that is guaranteed, not the chance or the money or even the choice of where he winds up, but until the trades he’d never really stopped to consider how that would impact any relationship he might be in.

Nick hadn’t, if he’s being honest, ever really expected to be in a relationship while he was still in the NHL. Something casual, maybe, sure, but the idea of trying to navigate a committed relationship in a major league sport with a fair degree of media attention when he knew there was a better than fifty percent chance that it’d be a guy he was with… Nick hadn’t really expected that he’d want it enough to put up with that.

And then there was Brandon, worming his way into Nick’s life and into his friendships and, not all that long after Nick had realized that he spent more time talking to Brandon than he did to anyone else, including Andy, _who he lived with_ —well, it hadn’t taken much longer than that for Nick to find Brandon in his bed, too.

He doesn’t think he’s ever going to be sorry about how _that_ has worked out.

Brandon sighs, turns his face into the crook of Nick’s shoulder, and mumbles something Nick doesn’t catch.

“Say again?” he says.

“I’m gonna fall asleep,” Brandon says, only barely more clearly the second time, but at least this time Nick can separate out the syllables enough to make an educated guess.

Nick goes back to running his hand through Brandon’s hair, lets his palm keep going, over Brandon’s neck and down his spine, as far as Nick can reach. Brandon still feels loose and relaxed on top of him, which Nick’s going to take as encouragement to keep doing that.

“Yeah, I kinda figured,” Nick says. “Wouldn’t be the first time, huh?”

“Shut up,” Brandon mumbles, although when Nick cranes his neck to look down he can see Brandon has half-opened one eye and is looking up at him, trying to look accusing but all it’s coming off as is vaguely smug. “You’ve fallen asleep on me too,” he points out.

“Like half as often,” Nick says, because one of them has a history here and it’s definitely not him.

“Yeah, yeah,” Brandon says dismissively. “Still counts.”

“Whatever you say, babe.” Nick says, and then has to fight his reflexive shudder when Brandon chooses to respond to that not with words or even gesture, but by biting gently over his collarbone. Nick’s not actually sure whether that was meant to be some kind of payback or just something Brandon felt like, but his dick does its best to get back on the program then, even though he’s pretty certain there really is no hope whatsoever of that. Not in the amount of time they’ve got left, anyway.

“Trying to get an advantage for tomorrow?” Nick jokes, hoping that that’s still okay.

Brandon licks over the marks his teeth have made, without actually bothering to open his eyes again, Nick notes, and then sucks hard, till the skin under his mouth is pink and tender. “Just wanted to do it,” Brandon says, and okay, Nick can live with that.

Brandon works his way back up to Nick’s mouth slowly, like he’s not in any kind of rush, and Nick just lies back and lets him do it. He lets Brandon take control, take the lead, lets him push and ask and take what he wants. Brandon isn’t going to ask him for anything he can’t give.

Brandon’s hands are steady and firm where he’s touching Nick, like he doesn’t want to let go, and Nick can sympathize, really. He knows he’s holding Brandon pretty much the same way.

It’s Nick’s turn to sigh when Brandon does find his mouth finally, brushes his lips against Nick’s a couple times, dry and almost chaste. Nick growls a little, opens his mouth to complain; if they’re making out in Brandon’s bed rather than doing anything else, then he wants to actually be _making out_.

“Hey, I got it,” Brandon says quietly, and then a little more ruefully he adds, “You should be glad I can even find you through the beard.”

“As if you don’t like it,” Nick says, because Brandon’s always been very clear on his feelings about Nick’s facial hair.

Brandon likes how he looks with it, and he really likes how it feels, the way Nick can mark him up so easy, friction and texture and sensation all at once. And it’s not even like they haven’t kissed—or fucked, or pretty much everything else, really—when Nick’s beard was at peak playoff wildness, and Brandon’s wasn’t exactly much better. At least Nick hadn’t had a freaking mullet to go with it.

“Less talking, more kissing,” Brandon says, the world’s weakest comeback, but it’s also effective because that’s just what Nick feels like doing anyway, so it’s not like he’d complaining for anything more than the sake of it.

Nick’s just starting to consider that maybe he is going to be able to get it up again after all when Brandon sighs against his mouth and rolls off him. He doesn’t go far, still pressed against Nick’s side, but he’s lying on his back staring up at the ceiling, his head beside Nick’s on the pillow.

“Mmm?” Nick asks, not quite up to anything more complex than that yet.

His mouth feels almost bruised, his lips buzzing, phantom pressure from Brandon’s lips and teeth pushing against his. He licks his lips for a moment, trying to wet them, thinks that he’s going to have to find some balm or something later too. He’s pretty sure there’s a tube in his toiletries bag, probably.

“It’s getting late,” Brandon says after a moment, carefully neutral.

Nick can hear all the things he doesn’t say in that; hovering unspoken and weightier for that, almost. That they have to stop, that Nick has to leave. That Nick will have to roll out of this warm bed and soft light and comfortingly familiar atmosphere. That he’ll have to get dressed and call a cab and go back to a hotel room that won’t have Brandon in it, and won’t even have Brandon down the hall, nominally in his own room, even if he’s close enough for Nick to reach out and touch. Nick likes his life, for the most part, and he loves his team and he’s happy in New York, but right then—times like this, it’s hard not to feel like it costs too much.

“How long do I have?” Nick asks eventually.

“Maybe a half hour?” Brandon says. “That’s leaving time for the drive, too, I checked the other day.”

“Always have to be a boy scout, huh?” Nick says, but it doesn’t really have any bite to it. “Should I call a cab now?” His phone is in the pocket of his jeans, on the floor somewhere halfway across the room. Nick really doesn’t want to crawl over there to get it yet.

The mattress shifts as Brandon shrugs against him.

“I can drive you back,” Brandon offers, and Nick’s tempted, despite himself.

Tempted, but not enough to actually agree.

“Probably better not to,” he says, and turns his head to find Brandon’s mouth again, his lips brushing the corner of his mouth before they line up enough to do it properly, soft and almost chaste. “I’m not keeping you out later the night before a game.”

What he doesn’t add, what Brandon hopefully knows without him having to say it is that Nick wants to be able to kiss him goodbye, too. He can do that in Brandon’s front hall, and maybe even on Brandon’s front porch—although maybe not, if Foligno lives next door, even if Nick is, admittedly, not sure which side. But he sure as shit can’t do that if Brandon’s parked up in front of the lobby of a hotel downtown, no matter how much lower a profile the Jackets have compared to the Hawks or even the Isles. He’s not bringing that down on Brandon, not if he can avoid it.

“Besides,” Nick says logically, “I know you, and there’s no way you want to put on pants again any time soon.”

Brandon is very committed to nudity at all appropriate times, which in Nick’s mind is any time they’re alone, and definitely around the house, and he’s yet to find a temperature outside that’s cold enough that Brandon would willingly don actual pajamas to sleep in without protest. Nick's never quite wanted to ask how that habit worked out with road roomies.

“I don’t need pants to drive,” Brandon says, a little sulkily, but when Nick raises an eyebrow at him he caves almost immediately.

“Not that I wouldn’t enjoy that,” Nick says. “But you’re not that much of an exhibitionist.”

Nick is very sure of that. Nick’s practically got a masters degree in what Brandon likes by this point, because they’ve done pretty much all of it and had a very good time doing so.

“I guess,” Brandon says with a sigh, rather than arguing, although he lets his teeth scrape over Nick’s lower lip when he tilts his face up for another kiss.

Nick rolls onto his side so he can see Brandon better, reach him more easily, and gets one hand on Brandon’s jaw, fingertips tracing the line of stubble from his chin and brushing down over his throat. He can feel Brandon’s pulse in the side of his neck, steady and regular, counting out the inevitable rush towards the moment where he can’t put off leaving any longer.

It’s almost distracting enough to let himself just focus in on exchanging easy kisses, loving the way Brandon shifts to press closer to him too, the way his hand lands on Nick’s hip and settles possessively over the side of his ass. He’s not pushing for anything more, but Nick feels steadier, anchored.

They’d kicked the blankets almost the whole way off the bed, and Nick will have to do something about that when he leaves; will probably bend down to pick them up and have Brandon wolf-whistle approvingly, tired enough to not want to move but not enough to stop him from leering appreciatively. It’s not cold though, not even for Ohio in the first pale blush of winter; Brandon’s house is warm and snug, and it wouldn’t surprise Nick if it’s even warmer in the bedroom, the heat they generate more than enough to keep them both comfortable.

Brandon’s the one who breaks the kiss in the end, pushes lightly on Nick’s chest with his free hand and takes a deep breath once Nick rolls back obediently.

“You should probably call a car now,” Brandon says. “And then get dressed and come back to bed while you wait for them.”

Nick flushes hot, knows his ears are probably pink too, is glad of the beard that hides the sudden bloom of warmth in his cheeks at the matter-of-fact, and yet overwhelmingly hot way that Brandon had just casually told him to do that.

“I can do that,” Nick says, although he might be saying that more for himself than anything else. Brandon knows he’s capable of it, and Brandon knows that Nick is almost always entirely happy to do whatever Brandon asks.

He rolls out of bed and finds his feet, pads over to the pile of clothing in front of the dresser and fishes out his own shirt; his pants, socks and briefs all half-rolled up and tangled. He pulls the shirt on first; it’s a button-down and the buttons on this one are fiddly, that’s going to be what takes the most time to get back on. Brandon makes a muffled noise from the bed, but when Nick looks back and raises an eyebrow Brandon just shrugs and gestures to him to keep on doing what he’s doing.

He sits down on the edge of the bed to put his socks on; the room might be warm but the floorboards feel cooler under bare feet. The mattress shifts again as Brandon sits up, leans heavily against Nick’s back, chin tucked into the curve of his shoulder, digging into the side of his neck. He’s so warm pressed against Nick, and he can feel his dick stirring, turned on again by knowing Brandon’s still bare-assed naked beside him, the ridiculousness of sitting around half-naked while Brandon watches him dress. Undressing’s usually the thing that gets people hot, sure, but in some weird way this is doing it for him, too.

“Move over for a sec?” he asks, and Brandon sits up straighter, his weight coming off Nick’s back.

Nick pulls on his underwear and pants, half-standing to get them both over his hips and ass, has to pause for a moment before zipping up and trying to readjust his dick in a way that’s at least marginally comfortable. Brandon doesn’t seem to be interested in cutting him a break there; instead he’s back on Nick almost the second his weight goes back onto the end of the mattress, wrapping his arms around Nick’s waist, the heel of his hand rubbing lightly over the crotch of Nick’s pants. Nick doesn’t even remotely begin to swallow the noise that prompts, and he can feel Brandon’s grin against the side of his throat.

“You can’t wait thirty seconds?” Nick asks rhetorically, but he fishes his phone out of his pocket anyway, thumbs open the app and punches in Brandon’s address to call for a ride. The app tells him he’s got about 15 minutes before he can expect the car, and he’d say as much out loud but he’s pretty sure Brandon can read it over his shoulder anyway.

Brandon hasn’t actually stopped his hand moving while Nick was using his phone, anyway. Nick can feel the heat of his touch, and the pressure, and it’s right on the edge between feeling good and too much, right there where Nick can’t quite stop himself from straining up into the touch. He’s definitely getting hard again, and Brandon is definitely enjoying teasing him, can certainly feel the effect he’s having even if Nick’s pants are maybe—hopefully—too dark to really see it.

“You’re gonna kill me,” Nick says, unsteadily, but he turns to catch Brandon’s mouth with his again anyway, pushes his tongue past his lips, making some demands of his own.

“I missed you,” Brandon says, too honestly, and he looks like he’s surprised himself by admitting that, too.

It’s far too late in the evening for Nick to do more than feel his heart skip in his chest, stomach flipping with a combination of pleasure and anxiety, but he tries to put those feelings into the way he kisses back. He turns inside Brandon’s embrace and pushes him back down onto the mattress, flat on his back as Nick settles on top of him again.

“I fucking missed you too,” Nick says, and then he kisses Brandon again, again and again, until everything in the world is the hot slide of Brandon’s lips against his, the insistent pressure of his tongue in Nick’s mouth and his hands on Nick’s back, the shattering way that Brandon arches up underneath him, dick filling and pushing against Nick’s hip, his legs spread as he tries to wrap himself around Nick.

It’s a lot, and it’s too much for that late in the day, too much after they’ve both got off already anyway, and too close to when Nick is going to have to leave and interrupt this whole scene no matter what. None of those facts are enough to stop them, though, and Brandon is panting hard and squirming under Nick when Nick’s phone beeps loudly, a notification that his car is waiting outside and he really, truly has to get up and leave now.

“Fuck,” Nick says with a groan, and he steals one more kiss from Brandon. “Fuck, I gotta.”

“Yeah, I know,” Brandon says, biting his own lip and then letting Nick roll off him.

Nick gets to his feet, sternly tells himself he can jerk off again later if he really needs to, he doesn’t need to cancel this ride and just crawl back to bed with Brandon right then anyway, and rubs the back of his hand over his mouth. He feels a little bruised all over, but hopefully nothing that’s going to show.

“Anything on my face?” he asks Brandon, and rather than make the usual joke which that leaves him open for, Brandon just shakes his head and gives him a tiny smile, says “No, you’re good.”

“Okay,” Nick says, and this time he bends over to pick up his backpack, swings it up onto his shoulder. “Okay, that’s everything, I’m gonna. I’m going.”

“I’ll let you out,” Brandon says, and he rolls back onto his feet, follows Nick through the bedroom and down the hall, back to the front door.

“See you tomorrow,” Nick says, feeling somewhat anticlimactic. It’s really not like it’s forever until they’ll see each other again, even if tomorrow they’re not going to be able to do more than maybe fist-bump in passing, if that.

“You bet,” Brandon says, and he presses one last kiss to Nick’s mouth before swatting his ass and saying, “Now go, you’re going to miss curfew.”

“Always so responsible,” Nick says, mock-complaining, but he can’t shake the grin as he steps outside, or the way that it widens when he can see from that angle—the way no one on the street should be able to, at least—that Brandon shivers and swears when some of the cold makes it in through the open door and hits him.

Serves him right for not even grabbing a robe before seeing Nick off, although it’s not like Nick is complaining about that being his last view for the evening.

He’s definitely going to let that simmer in his imagination some more when he gets back to his own bed.


End file.
